


Oh, the things we do (in the name of what we love)

by misbehavin



Series: mccall pack [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Anchors, Blood, F/F, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Sort Of, and other soulmate implied stuff, background characters & relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbehavin/pseuds/misbehavin
Summary: They’re no longer possessed when they leave. However, there are invisible scars, leftover poison. Lying down on the backseat of the car, using Allison’s legs as a pillow, Lydia can sense every last one of them and hear every violent, desperate thought, because they’re louder than the other murmurs, closer. If she wanted, she could touch the thread that sews all of them together, tug it until it snapped. The chance it would turn them back to who they were before is equal to the chance of destroying them completely.





	Oh, the things we do (in the name of what we love)

**Author's Note:**

> It's been awhile since I wrote this and honestly, I still don't know what's going on.  
> Let me know if there's anything else that should be tagged.

 

It got Allison first.

Lydia didn’t notice it when they reemerged, or rather not commented on it. She was hoarse from wailing all night, but more than that she was acting quiet, terrified in a way she never seemed to be. Scott’s first new breath had his lungs fill with the scent of the blood on her tongue, because she had screamed herself sore bringing them back. Stiles noticed she was trembling as much as they were, as if she’d just been resurrected too.

They should’ve guessed back then, what it meant. But they didn’t.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They’re no longer possessed when they leave. However, there are invisible scars, leftover poison. Lying down on the backseat of the car, using Allison’s legs as a pillow, Lydia can sense every last one of them and hear every violent, desperate thought, because they’re louder than the other murmurs, closer. If she wanted, she could touch the thread that sews all of them together, tug it until it snapped. The chance it would turn them back to who they were before is equal to the chance of destroying them completely. The risk is too great, so Lydia ignores the sound of their minds seeping through her skull, curls into herself. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let them know, not even when Allison’s hand start brushing her hair, her touch soft and reassuring, and it makes Lydia think, maybe, just maybe… But she falls asleep before she can even try to speak.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

From the get go, the plan was easier said than done. Allison was the one able to convince Malia, Kira and Isaac to stay put, waiting for Braeden’s instructions. They were to take care of surrounding their hometown with mountain ash and Braeden had brought her very own family’s protection spells while Derek and Allison’s dad handled Peter.

The idea to rid home of evil, or at least its roots, was a centuries-old bedtime story, but Allison trusted her gut. They had tracked the demon that first infected Beacon Hills’ oldest tree, and reversed the ancient curse he’d put in a woman named Julia. All odds point in the direction of something that resembles peace, and everybody knows that Allison has a perfect aim and a too stubborn of a heart to accept anything less.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first night at a motel is the hardest. Outside it rains heavily, inside the room smells of mold, and four people sharing one bed isn’t exactly ideal.

Scott watches Stiles, the deep dark circles under his eyes and his bitten off nails. Definitely not okay, but then again, none of them are, not yet. Reaching over and easing his pain is so much like second nature now that he doesn’t fully notice he’s doing it until Stiles flinches.

“Stop,” Stiles says, and he sounds like he’s about to cry.

“What? Why?” Scott asks, frowning.

“You’re hurting too. And it’s not fair, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Scott says. “Give me your hand. C’mon, let me help.”

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head and curling his hands into fists.

Scott’s eyes are liquid scarlat, and they shine darkly against the streetlights coming from the window.

“Give me your hand, Stiles.” It’s a command, and Scott shudders at the thrill of it. Guilt rises inside his chest right after but he pushes it down until it fades away.

Once he’s done, Stiles falls sideways, holding onto Scott’s shoulder and hiding his face in Scott’s neck before he gets unconscious. Scott wraps his arms around him, nuzzles his hair, and only then notices that Lydia is sound asleep, comfortable in Allison’s embrace.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Something pierces through him until it reaches the other side, and his breathing becomes uneven as Scott slowly comes into focus. There’s a smirk on his lips, a red glint in his eyes.

Scott is too close, but a dream is a dream. Stiles doesn’t look away.

“He’s mine, you know,” Allison says, and it doesn’t hurt so much. Not like it used to, before, anyway.

Scott rips open his shirt at the same time she kisses the spot behind Stiles’ ear. “But it’s okay,” she adds, but she’s not really Allison, he thinks. Can’t be. Not when her next words are, “You’ll be mine, too.”

He hears a parody of Lydia’s laughter, like whatever’s posing as her is watching the three of them from the foot of the bed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Their parents fell for the excuse of them taking a little vacation way too easily for it not to mean some of the persuasion tricks hadn’t fully worn off yet.

This is different, in the sense that no magic is sustaining it, but it works just the same. Not only the fake credit cards Stiles carries on his wallet and uses to pay for gas and gummy-bears, but the way he glares at the waitress when they go for lunch and says, “Our meal’s on you,” and she nods, obedient though wide-eyed, as if Stiles had said something convincible enough for her not to question it. Looking at him, he does still look threatening.

Well, they all do.

“Stiles…” Scott protests, but there’s no heat in it. His morality falters when Stiles is involved. Besides, Stiles did wake up sweaty and screaming last night, so he knows there’s no way he’d be in a good mood now.

At Allison’s dimpled grin, Stiles raises one eyebrow. She knows Scott’s utterly oblivious to the way the girl had been staring at him, his tattoo, the supernatural glow of his being, the beauty he exhales. She understands Stiles’ jealousy more than she’d ever be able to admit out loud.

“You’re gonna pay for our lunch, is that clear?” Stiles says, looking back at the waitress, his voice low, reserved.

The girl nods again, and Lydia admires how she doesn’t seem shaken. How pretty she is, how pretty her red bra seems to be underneath her thin blouse, how she could never guess the things the four of them have been through or the things they’ll do after they leave this place. She sighs, longing for the stranger’s ignorance.

Allison tries to hide a grin behind her hand and just before Stiles asks what the hell is so funny, Lydia makes her order. Then Allison’s face shifts into a mildly disgusted grimace when the waitress calls Lydia “darling”. Stiles looks at her knowingly, his turn to smirk.

Allison wants to punch him. She settles for kicking him in the shin.

It turns into footsie.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It got Allison first, so now she claims the kill, too.

None of them could ever have predicted her and Scott arguing over which was the best way to put a monster down, but it feels so natural it’s chilling. Scott isn’t particularly interested in ripping anyone to shreds yet (though it’s just a matter of time ‘til it happens) and Allison mostly wants to train her aiming (the need to shoot something dead is making her restless).

They’re sitting on the hood of the car, parked just outside the road. The buzzing from the woods mix with the humming inside Lydia’s head and the sharp sound of Stiles’s pen scribbling on a small notebook.

“I know what you’re doing and I hate it,” Allison says, because she knows Scott’s mostly worried about guilt. Even now that they’re on the road, traveling the path they need to travel in order to fix everything, _together_ as they agreed, he still wants to carry the burden all by himself.

He sets his jaw. The full-moon is weeks away but that doesn’t matter, not anymore. Scott is always wolf, underneath all his soft edges — especially now that his eyes flash red instead of gold. Allison doesn’t mind the responsibility of being the one who can make him back the fuck down, but sometimes it doesn’t seem quite right.

The sound echoing from the back of his throat gets louder.

“Seriously?” She dares him, just as Stiles drops his pen and looks up from his notes.

“Hey, hey, hey, Scotty?” he says, and along with him, Lydia reprehends, “ _Scott._ ”

Scott takes a step back, inhales deeply. Presses the heels of his hands on his eyes until he stops growling.

“Shit,” he curses. “Sorry. Shit. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” Allison lies. “Let’s just go, okay?”

“The keys,” Lydia says, and Stiles places them carefully on her open hand.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It ends like most things in their lives had. Messy, bloody, and bathed in moonlight.

Allison takes her chinese-ring dagger off the thing’s chest, hands it to Lydia so Scott can spit on it and they can finish the spell. Then she starts dragging the corpse away from them and leaving it at the center of the pentagram Lydia drew with chalk.

“You’re not gonna pass out, right?” Allison asks, frowning at the dramatic look on Stiles’ face.

He swallows, crosses his arms. “Fuck you.”

Allison laughs, a real kind of laugh, and it makes Stiles weak at the knees the same way Lydia’s gaze and Scott’s touch do. He pulls her away from the carcass Scott had dismantled, sets it on fire, and forces forces himself stay awake enough to watch it all efficiently burn to nothing.

“Let’s get out of here,” Lydia says over her shoulder when it’s all done, then turns back to resume wiping any evidence left on Scott’s teeth. Nobody else needs to know that besides being a banshee, Lydia knows blood magic.

 

 

* * *

 

 

According to the texts Scott receives, everything back in Beacon Hills went smoothly.

Inside the parked car, Allison kisses his and everyone’s mouth for what feels like the first time and her relieved sigh echoes inside them all.

“We should have sex,” she suggests, at the same time Lydia blurts, “I have something to tell you.”

She tells them about the sacrifice to the Nemeton, about bringing them back with her sheer force of will, about how it tangled the threads of fate between them, about how it’s irreversible.

Scott smiles at her and Allison laughs again, like it’s the best news she’s heard in years and not the most dangerous thing Lydia’s ever done.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Stiles asks, astonished.

For the first time in weeks, Lydia smiles. It shouldn’t, but it does surprise her how much her cheeks don’t hurt from it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After, they drive for so long time ceases to exist.

They’ve been sleeping in the car for a few days but as soon they realize Stiles hasn’t been having any decent sleep at all since they left Beacon Hills, they decide to check-in in another motel, a shitty place for sure but cheap. Not that they’re going to pay for their stay, because the second they walk in, the clerk’s eyes widen and both his arms go up in surrender. And not without reason: Allison is holding her daggers as if they’re an amulet, Stiles still looks as pale and strange as a corpse, Scott’s eyes keep flashing red despite his best efforts, and Lydia has dry blood on her hands and no pocket to hide it. They’re happy and feeling accomplished but the clerk doesn’t know the story behind that either. They look like a feral, dangerous, older version of themselves, and maybe that’s the strangest part of it all, the pinpoint of the most substantial change. They don’t actually mind that much.

 


End file.
